LifeoftheParty (2 page)

“You want me, sugar?” she asked a little breathlessly, her
lips hot on his skin, her tongue traveling up his arms to his chest.

Doug shut his eyes but still she appeared, always there,
always there, always. He gripped the bars, his fingers so tight around the
brass he could feel it collapsing, his nails digging into his skin, but still
she was there.
Go away
,he thought, his body stiffening.
Goddamn
it, Gina, leave me alone.

“Dougie…” Tracy whispered. Biting, nipping, her breath
coming in gasps. “Sugar—do you wanna fuck?”

He rolled over and reached for the bottle. “Baby, I’m
already fucked.”

* * * * *

CARMELLI RESIDENCE

RIVERBORO, NJ

WEDNESDAY 30 OCTOBER

3:22 A.M.

Roark Carmelli opened his eyes and immediately knew what
time it was. Same time it was the morning before and the morning before that,
when he had awoken knowing what time it was then too. He leaned up on his elbow
and looked past the mountain his wife was becoming, enormously pregnant and
still two months to go. The Italian in him, the romantic and earthy side,
congratulated him on his manly prowess, not only for making his wife pregnant
their first time together, but with triplets for Christ’s sake, and no medical
intervention necessary.

The Irish in him, the practical but no less lusty side,
congratulated him on his efficiency, where he and his wife, at forty-four and
nearly forty respectively, had gotten their childbearing duties in under the
wire and with the remarkable compression of two heirs and a spare. But the
whole that comprised Roark himself was just proud as hell and terribly in love,
which even at this late and unwieldy stage still produced in him a morning wood
comparable to forged steel. He slid his hand over her massive belly, nuzzling
her neck.

After a moment or two, Pam stirred, sighing as she glanced
at the bedside clock. “Three twenty-two again,” she said, yawning. “Jesus,
Roark, your cock is like one of those pop-up turkey timers.”

“What can I say?” he said, snuggling closer, his hand
sliding around breasts grown twice their normal size. “Monstrously pregnant
women get me hard. Especially when they’re my wife.”

Pam’s hand roamed to his leg, sliding it down his tightening
thigh. “I feel like one of those pagan fertility idols we saw at the Museum of
Natural History. All tits and a belly as big as Santa’s sack. If this gets you
hot, then, player, get up here.”

“That’s not what does it,” he said, prodding her to open as
he braced himself over her. His cock nudged her slick pussy as he slid one hand
down her leg. “It’s the swollen ankles that really get me off.”

“And the nipples as big as coasters? I feel like I should be
giving birth in a potato field.” He brushed his hand down over her belly, his
finger circling her clit. “Let me know how I’m doing down there, Roark. I
haven’t seen it in months.”

“It’s still there, don’t worry,” he said, easing himself in,
half entering, as far as he’d let himself go. She groaned, brushing his cheek.
It was almost enough to set him off.

“That’s it, big boy,” she whispered, writhing slightly,
“show me how the whales do it.”

He stroked her easy, arching over her to kiss her enormous
breasts, her skin warm and tasting of sleep and something he couldn’t define
yet still made his head spin. And his cock harden even more.

“Jesus, Pam, I think I’m already gonna—”

The doorbell rang.

His head shot up. “What the fuck!”

Pam stiffened. “Who can that be?”

He could feel her pulse kicking up as he slid himself from
her. “Fuck if I know,” he said, grabbing his jeans from the floor. Then, out of
a habit too long ingrained, he opened his bedside table drawer, punched a few
numbers in a heavy metal box and, lifting the lid, pulled out his pistol. He
loaded the magazine, then tucked it into his waistband. “Be right back.”

The bell rang again. Pam grabbed his arm. “Jesus, Roark,”
she said, glancing at the weapon, “do you really think that’s necessary?”

He shrugged her arm away, gently but firmly. How could he
possibly explain it to her? Maybe it was the Italian kicking in again, that
fiery yet feral part of him wanting to protect his woman and his cave, or maybe
it was just the Irish cop he’d always be. Whatever it was, he said, “Stay here.
I’ll be right back.”

The bell rang again, this time nonstop. Roark trotted
lightly down the steps and into the big colonial’s center hall. He could see
the shadow of a man through one of the skinny windows running the length of
either side of the door, hear the bell silence only to be replaced by an
insistent banging. Two long strides across the sanded hardwood and he clutched
the knob, his other hand hovering just above his waistband.

“Whoever you are you better be bleeding,” he said.

More banging before, “Carmelli, you motherfucker! Open this
motherfucking thing or you’re a fucking dead man!”

Roark sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. He
opened the door to find Doug propped against the jamb.

“You motherfucker,” Doug said, swaying slightly. “I’m
gonna—”

Roark stepped aside and let his old partner and best friend
fall flatly yet firmly on his face.

CARMELLI RESIDENCE – RIVERBORO

WEDNESDAY 30 OCTOBER

10:34 A.M.

Doug needed to puke. What a bitch he had no idea where the
toilet was.

He reeled from the bed, his feet hitting unfamiliar floor,
desperately scanning the room. An uncurtained window, boxes lining the wall,
three doors, two on one side. Where the hell was he?
Think, think.
He
left some place to come to…to… “Fuck.” He palmed his forehead, his stomach
lurching, his brain ready to roll out of his cranium. He needed to find
someplace to hurl in ten seconds or he was going to make a mess on someone’s
hardwood. He clasped his mouth and leapt toward the door in front of him.

Sometime luck smiles at you. Behind the door was a bathroom.
Doug threw back the lid and emptied his lurching stomach. Not that there was
much in it beyond scotch. He couldn’t remember the last time he ate. Peanuts,
maybe? Or some bar food. Whatever. He straightened up, pissed, flushed. To his
right lay the shower. He shrugged off his trousers, shorts, ran a hand up his
shoulder to slide off his holster—
Wait a minute.
He reached inside it.
Empty.

The chorus sang in illumination.
Son of a bitch.
He
was at Carmelli’s.

Motherfucker.
He hurled his holster and shirt to the
floor and stepped into a cold shower.

Fifteen minutes later, he walked naked into the bedroom,
toweling his spiky blond hair, his gaze falling to the chair in the corner. He
laughed, painfully. On it sat a pair of rolled-up socks, shorts still in the
package and a clean shirt. Considerations complementing the razor and
toothbrush on the sink. This was what marriage got you. Or was it just Carmelli
rubbing shit in his face? Didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if he couldn’t use them.
So he did, all of them, and grabbing his jacket and empty holster, left the
bedroom for the stairway down.

He had never been inside before, had only seen the house
from the street. He remembered Carmelli telling him they had only moved in a
month earlier, still trying to get it ready before the babies came.
Babies.

“Back here,” he heard as rolled off the last step, the scent
of coffee hitting him strong. He turned toward the kitchen in the back.
Sunlight flooded her as she stood at the island, lifting a carafe of that
liquid sustenance, her eyes still clamped on her laptop. She tapped a key then
turned. Pamela Flynn, best-selling writer.
Christ Almighty
, Carmelli sure
scored huge with her. Even with a belly looking big enough to hold ten babies,
with that long auburn hair, those piercing eyes, she was still beautiful.

He clenched his jaw, swallowing hard. So beautiful he could
hardly stand the sight of her.

“Good morning, Douglas,” Pam said, pouring out a mug. “So
great to see you. Thanks for scaring the shit out of me.”

Now he was scaring women.
Nice job, asshole.
He took
a step back. “I’m sure I’ve won the dick of the year award. Just give me my
piece and I’ll get out of here.”

“Sit the hell down,” she said, shoving a mug of coffee at
him. “Now tell me how you want your eggs.”

“In the carton,” he said. “Couldn’t eat if I tried.”

She leaned on her hip. “But you could drink, right? If I
poured a shot into that mug, tell me you wouldn’t suck it down. But a plate of
eggs is a problem?”

Doug pulled the coffee to him. It hurt too much too argue.
“Scrambled.”

“Thank you,” Pam said, already cracking the eggs.

They didn’t talk while she cooked, while Roark’s home-baked
bread toasted, when she poured him a tall glass of tomato juice. Or even while
he inhaled all at a pace rivaling the land speed record. After a couple of
aspirins and one more mug of coffee. Doug marveled at how much better he felt.
If only physically.

Because the inner part of him, the part that ached beyond
the corporeal, was still taking a beating. In that nest of domesticity and
intellect, surrounded by the scents of fresh paint and warm bread, amid NPR,
the terra-cotta herb garden and the literary journals, Doug felt stupid and
intrusive, as if he were a monkey at a symposium. If there’d been a trap door
beneath him, he surely would’ve sprung it. But on the other hand, why should he
feel that way? He hadn’t asked to be there. He’d been forced. Roark Carmelli hadn’t
intruded in his life as much as battle-axed into it.

“Thanks, Pam,” he said, taking his plate to the sink. “I’m
sure I don’t deserve it.”

She turned from the sink. “What you deserve is a punch in
the gut, but my aim’s off these days. I’ll leave it to Roark.”

He slung his jacket over his shoulder. “Hey, he’s got some
explaining to do himself. Believe it or not, I had a reason for coming here
last night. Where is he anyway?”

“At Serious Joe.
Working
,” she said, crossing her
arms over her massive belly. “Like I should be.”

“Like I would be too, if you’d give me my piece.”

“Don’t look at me. The only pieces I handle are fictitious.
And after last night I sure as hell didn’t want someone strapped and shitfaced
in my house.”

He leaned in and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Jesus,
woman, you’re cold.” He shoved his hand in his pocket. Then the other. Then in
his jacket. “Damn, did he take my car keys too?”

“And the car,” said Pam, waddling back to her laptop. “Since
he had to move it off the lawn anyway.”

“Son of a bitch. That means I’ll have to—”

“Walk? Ought to do you good to go
toward
something,
don’t you think?”

* * * * *

SERIOUS JOE COFFEE BISTRO—RIVERBORO

11:44 A.M.

It hadn’t been far, only five or six blocks, a little over
half a mile to Carmelli’s coffee bistro, Serious Joe. He had to admit, the
crisp October air did help to clear his head. In fact, it was a hell of a lot
more pleasant outside than Doug knew it was going to be inside. He could see
his car parked in the small lot in the back. His stomach tightened. Even though
he loved the man like a brother there were just some things he had no business
butting into. This sure as hell was one of them. He stepped inside.

And into another world. Coming onto lunchtime, Serious Joe’s
tables were already three-quarters taken, the buzz of chatter and low hum of
jazz filling the sunny room. Doug looked past the potted plants and eclectic
artwork to the counter where Roark held court, a small coterie of women
ooh
ing
and
aah
ing as he worked some caffeinated magic with an especially
elaborate French press.

“Add a little cinnamon and
voila
!” Roark said,
pouring the coffee into a bright ceramic cup. “Java to die for.”

A woman leaned over, slurping a sip. “Oh Roark, it’s
fabulous
,”
she cooed, gifting him with an interior view of her Wonderbra. “Shelly, c’mere,
you gotta taste this.”

As gal-pal attempted to give Roark another hands-free
demonstration of breast lift-and-squish, Doug interjected with, “Dude, I think
you have something of mine.”

Roark looked up, a brow raised. “Well, well, if it ain’t the
midnight rambler.” He poured the rest of the coffee into two more cups and,
adding them to a tray, directed a server to their table. “Enjoy, ladies. See
you soon.”

“’Bye, Roark,” one of them said, each giving Doug a quick
up-and-down.

Roark folded his muscled arms across his chest. “You have
something to say to me, Welland?”

“I think you know that.”

“Outside then,” he said, and Doug followed him through the
kitchen and out the back door. When they reached the end of the parking lot,
Roark turned. “Okay. Talk.”

Doug stared at his old partner. A million things jumped to
the fore, but the only thing he could say was, “Why’d you do it?”

Roark met his gaze. “Because she needs you.”

“I’m the last thing she needs. Christ! Didn’t she prove that
already?”

“If that were true she would’ve stayed gone and we wouldn’t
be having this conversation.” A breeze kicked up and Roark shoved his hands in
his pockets. “Look, she came to me asking about protection, but I told her I
didn’t do that anymore. So I told her to get ahold of you. When I said that she
looked like it hurt just hearing your name, but who was she kidding? I could
see she was just going through me to get to you anyway. I said I’d give you a
call, but she said she’d contact you herself.”

“Her number’s on my phone. Did you give it to her?”

“No. She must have gone through Halchak.”

“And he jumped on it to get me off the Unit.” Doug snorted.
“Thanks, buddy.”

Roark’s eyes flared. “He didn’t fire you, did he? Because if
he did, I swear to God I’ll go down there and tell that bastard—”

“No, I’m just suspended to Psycho. Unless I go see her.”

“Then do it,” Roark said, looking genuinely relieved.

Doug glared at him. “
You
fucking psycho?”

“
You
are if you don’t. And after last night, I don’t
need any more proof.”

“This is bullshit.” Doug held out his hand. “Give me my
piece.”

Roark clasped his friend’s shoulder. “Doug, listen to me,
what can it hurt to just talk to her?”

“Hurt?” He shrugged him off. “What the fuck do you know
about hurt, you and that cozy little fairyland you got going on five streets
back? Have you ever had a woman rip your balls off and shove them down your
throat? I don’t need your Dr. Phil lectures. All I need are my car keys and my
piece so I can get the fuck out of here.”

“Top drawer, my desk,” Roark said, tossing the keys. “Then
go fuck yourself on the way out.”

Doug watched him leave. He didn’t think it was possible to
feel any shittier than when he’d first woken up, but there he was, surpassing
himself. He picked up his keys, his head throbbing. Suddenly the idea of
driving his car into the river seemed oddly calming. He headed toward the back
door.

Roark’s office was just to the left of the kitchen. The man
looked up as Doug walked in, then promptly left the room. Good. He’d had enough
confrontation for one day. He turned to the office, opening the door.

A sledgehammer couldn’t have hit him any harder.

A spiked heel, a slit skirt, those beautiful breasts
shifting as she turned from the desk and brushed a dark strand from her
uptwist, her eyes burning like warmed sherry.

“Hello, Lieutenant,” Gina said, aiming his own weapon at his
heart.

Gina couldn’t move, taking in the sight of him. Just like
the first time they met almost three years earlier—the calm, cool detective, a
witness for the prosecution, and she, the hard-as-nails attorney for the
defense. He had a rep as a dogged investigator and Gina was the Last Hope of
Lost Causes. After the trial ended he had met her outside to concede victory.
Three days, several calls to room service and a pile of tangled sheets later,
she had graciously accepted. And she knew that now, like then, it would be easy
to succumb, even with so much rough mileage between them.

Spiky hair the color of sweet corn, eyes so icy blue they
were almost crystalline, as his large, muscular body filled the doorway, she
knew he carried the lineage of some Viking raid on Britain. Such cheekbones,
such an angular nose, such memories of that sensual mouth falling on hers. When
he closed the door it was all she could do to keep standing.

The gun twisted on her finger, upending. “Looking for this?”
she managed to say.

It took a few moments before he moved, but when he did, he
was as swift as a panther. “Give it here,” he said, his voice still slightly
gravelly, taking the pistol from her, an electric shock shooting up her arm
when their fingers touched. He opened his jacket and slipped it into his
holster, those aquamarine eyes never leaving hers.

Gina tossed her head, sincerely hoping that wasn’t
coquettish, as she only wanted to see him better. He was looming over her,
taking her in, standing so close she felt the heat from his body coming at her
in waves. With his collar opened and his tie loosened, she could see the pulse
point at his neck thumping wildly. Like how her own heart nearly beat a hole in
her chest.

She licked her lips. “Lieutenant, I know you’re probably
wondering why after all this time I—”

He grabbed her, his big hands clamping around her arms, and
before she knew it he had twisted her around, slamming her back against the
door.

“What are you doing here?” he asked. “What do you want?”

He was squeezing the life from her, his hands shaking. “I
need your help,” she said.

His jaw tightened. “And I need you to stay away from me.”

“But I can’t.” She slumped in his grasp. “Not anymore.”

Was that a groan? She couldn’t tell. Nor did she have time
to decipher it. Because within a breath he was kissing her, her head swimming
as his tongue parted her lips and drove inside, silencing anything she wanted
to say.

For the next few moments she existed purely on a sensual
level—the taste, the scent, the feel of him commanding every receptor of her
being, physical or mental. His mouth was hot, insistent, nearly maniacal as his
body pressed against her, his heart thumping wildly atop hers. He tasted of
coffee and faintly of mint, his skin smelling of soap, his hair of some vague
domesticity, which shot a stab of crazed jealousy through her, making her
squirm beneath his grasp. He growled something indiscernible and his hand slid
to the curve of her ass, pressing, kneading, his mouth leaving hers to trail
hot kisses along the arching curve of her neck.

She groaned, her skin suddenly electric, sparks flying from
every pore in her body. “God, Doug… Doug—”

No time to finish. Not when those fiery lips had wound their
way down her neck to her collarbone, his hand tracing her shoulder and down to
the slope of her breast. Again she arched into him, rising on her toes, his
cock a steel shaft along her hip. Her hand fell to it and squeezed.